


Buns of Steel

by Siriusstuff



Series: Sterek Sprinkles II [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (let's assume), Alternate Universe, Attempt at Humor, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Superman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 21:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: Superman to Stiles's rescue--again!





	Buns of Steel

**Author's Note:**

> I started this around the time of Tyler Hoechlin's first appearance on Supergirl. My ambitions for a much longer fic required world-building skills (and far more patience and focus) than I possess however. The title remains the one I'd originally planned and also suggests where I thought I was going with this, but, along with the world-building/patience/focus problems, I also got bogged down in wondering exactly how sex with a superhuman would go. Many new fic ideas intervened, some actually in progress now, and I'm pretty sure I will not return to this one. So that's why it's a "Sterek Sprinkle." At least it has a beginning and an end.

Stiles Stilinski, reporter for TheDailyPlanet.com, dangled from a window ledge on the 37th floor.

All he’d wanted to do was feed the crusts from his sandwich to the pigeons always out there, because crusts, yuck.

“Little help?” Stiles squeaked, though only the pigeons could hear him, and they just kept cooing, that was all, no help whatsoever.

“See if I ever feed you again, you jerks,” Stiles said, petulantly, though the real question was would he even feed himself again, considering his arms were starting to weaken and his grip was failing. Was his last meal really going to be pastrami on pumpernickel, with light mustard?

At the familiar whistling whoosh sound Stiles felt he could relax some but was pretty sure that would guarantee his plummeting to the sidewalk below, which he’d prefer not to do.

Then there stood Superman on the side of the building, by Stiles’s feet. Stiles had strength left for only a quick glance over his shoulder, noting the Man of Steel’s tiny smirk, hands on his hips—and that he stood horizontal to the ground, his long red cape hanging towards the street because while the “strange visitor from another planet” could defy gravity apparently his cape could not.

“Kal.” Stiles’s voice trembled. “Y’gonna help me? _Please_?”

“Of course, Stiles,” said Superman. “Just let go.”

After sixteen previous rescues, including one where Stiles had flailed himself out of the Daily Planet News ‘Copter and another where he’d crashed through ice on the not so frozen lake whilst following up reports of a sasquatch in Metropolis’s Mid-City Park, Stiles trusted the superhero with his life and released his hold on the ledge.

Likewise, after sixteen previous rescues, Superman no longer asked Stiles how he managed to get into potentially fatal situations regularly.

Safe and snug in Superman’s arms Stiles floated hundreds of feet in the air, right outside his office window.

He slithered from Superman’s embrace back into safety. Superman waited till Stiles had staggered out of view before he entered, feet first.

The young reporter collapsed into his desk chair. He was still gasping for breath when he saw how that magnificent red cape, hanging half out the window and not covering all of Superman’s back, no longer in its way revealed an even more magnificent backside, a butt near hemispherical in profile, filling the seat of Superman’s blue outfit so fully, looking so firm, that Stile’s next gasp was a much louder intake of air.

“Stiles!” Superman cried. “Do you need medical attention? Let me fly you to the nearest ER!”

Now that he’d come further into Stiles office and stood near, Superman’s cape was draped its usual full length behind him.

With the super bubble booty out of sight, Stiles’s heartbeat began slowing to normal—not that he was a hundred percent happy about the reason why.

Suddenly barging into his office, Scott McCall, of the Planet Sports Team, shouted, “Stiles! Mr. White just told me people are calling saying you’re hanging out your window, and Superman’s rescuing you!—Oh, hi, Superman.”

Scott’s observational skills were what made Planet Sports Team such a media success.

“Yes to both, Scotty. I _was_ and Kal rescued me.”

“OK. Cool, dude. Well, Mr. White says you can take the rest of the day off for, you know, your troubles.—Bye, Superman!” Then Scott backed out of the office and was gone before Stiles could reply.

“I—” Stiles started, looking at his rescuer to finish, “may take him up on that.”

“Stiles?” Superman asked, a little shyly.

Stiles simply cocked his head.

“I need to tell you something.”

Stiles’s heart began to pound once more. Getting rescued from life-threatening situations, by the same hero, the same supernaturally gorgeous hero, seventeen times, you start to develop _feelings_.

He barely had the voice to ask, “What?”

“My real name’s not Kal-El.”

“ _What_?” Stiles came close to roaring. “You’re _not_ Kal-El, from the planet Krypton, raised by humble, good-hearted farm folk in Kansas, who—”

“Stiles, relax. No.”

“Ka—! Supe—!” Stiles cried. “Are you gonna tell me the truth then?”

“Shhh,” Superman hushed. “No offense intended, but you know you can’t trust everything reported in the news.”

Stiles’s left eye twitched but he couldn’t deny the statement.

“The planet Krypton story is the truth, being raised by a good-hearted human family is the truth. But it happened in California, not Kansas. And…” he trailed off.

“ _And?”_ Stiles urged.

“And my Krypton name is… Der-Ek.”

That was better than finding out Kal-El was short for Kalvinard Ellinghamsworth, Stiles supposed, but still, the reporter in him felt urgently motivated.

“We have to update your profile info, Ka—I mean, Der-Ek,” he exclaimed, pulling his keyboard forward.

But Superman just rested his hand on Stiles’s. “Please, Stiles, no. I’d like my human family to remain unknown. And some mystery about me is good, isn’t it?”

“Misinformation isn’t the same as mystery, Der-Ek!”

“You can call me Derek, you know.—And all I’m asking is that you let the story stand as it is, for now at least, since misinformation misleads evil-doers too.”

Stiles huffed.

“Now why _don’t_ you take up Mr. White on his offer and I’ll fly you home. Rest will do you good, after your… defenestration.”

Der-Ek’s/Derek’s voice was so calming and caring it made Stiles feel warm and goopy inside.

“I’ve got my Jeep here,” he offered meekly.

“You’re too upset to drive.—Please, I’ll fly you home, and make you a nice cup of tea.”

“Make it hot cocoa and it’s a deal,” Stiles countered.

“Fine.”

Suddenly demanding, “And you’re answering honestly any questions I have. With complete candor!” Stiles declared.

“I promise,” Superman assured, however naively.

Such a promise from the super-being blunted hot shot reporter Stiles’s dogged resolve. “Just for my… personal knowledge, I swear,” he promised in return.

Superman nodded, hopped out the window, floating there till Stiles stepped out and into his arms. Then off they flew.

Stiles made an in-flight phone call to Scott, requesting that he go back to Stiles’s office and shut the windows, please, to keep out those goddamn useless pigeons.


End file.
